


another story of the one you lost

by OfShoesAndShips



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke, Ladies of Grace Adieu - Susanna Clarke
Genre: F/M, Soulmarks, Time Travel, Yeah I don't know either, bickery flirting, forgive me i am in rarepair hell, i know how this ends but also i don't know how this ends
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-25
Updated: 2016-04-23
Packaged: 2018-05-29 00:47:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6352216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OfShoesAndShips/pseuds/OfShoesAndShips
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"soulmate au where they hate each other and when they find out they’re soulmates they’re like “where’s the fuckin’ gift receipt because I want to return this defective piece of trash”</p><p>that’s it that’s the au"</p><p>(from here: http://kstewrpc.tumblr.com/post/92618225176/soulmate-au-where-they-hate-each-other-and-when)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1752

Of course, it’s different for fairies.

For the humans, the names – or images, or marks – on their skin are both consistent and largely irrelevant. If your soulmate isn’t nearby when you’re to marry, then you marry the best prospect. If your soulmate is too poor, or out of your class, then you marry the best prospect. Marriage was always business; that didn’t change when the soulmarks started appearing again, nearly three hundred years ago. Perhaps in the old days, before the Raven King, things had been different – the old texts spoke of soulmarks, too. But no-one knew for sure, so there was no point in worrying over it.

Fairies, however, were a different matter. They, for one, had always had soulmarks. But these soulmarks, as can be expected when talking of such a long-lived people, changed. Eighty years of one name, a thousand of another, or a name that came and went overnight – it was all perfectly normal. And fairies being what they were, distance was never an object, and class an object only for some. But that, of course, only applied to other fairies.

A name appearing on a fairy’s arm in Latin script was quite another matter. It wasn’t as if he had no others – one along the edge of his collarbone, both reassuring and condemning in its constancy, and a second tucked around his kneecap that came and went as it chose. But both of those were fay, and so, acceptable – even if Tom Brightwind – for he was their bearer – did not, himself, accept them. Or at least not all the time.

This third name, however, appeared one day in the middle of both winter and what the English were in the habit of calling the eighteenth century.

Tom, who had been procrastinating on learning the limited and ugly script that now had the impetuousness to scrawl itself upon his forearm, had David read it to him.

“It’s an unusual name,” David said, “She shouldn’t be too hard to find.”

Tom gave him a very eloquent look, and they spoke no more about it.


	2. 1820

It was a long time since he’d last been summoned, but still, there was only one thing that that deep wrench in the pit of his stomach could mean. He couldn’t have fought it even if he’d wanted to, but it had been a slow day so far – in fact, it was the only interesting thing that had happened to him for…oh, at least a year. So he went with it, because at least then he’d get to kill someone for summoning him away from his book without even asking first.

There was a quick flash of darkness, and then a flash of slightly deeper darkness that he recognised as a cloudy Yorkshire evening – though how he knew this, he had no idea, and promptly reprimanded himself both for knowing and for not knowing how he knew.

Then, taking care not to stumble, he landed in a large, wood-panelled room that positively glowed with magic and the remnants of wildness.

Now this, he knew well.

He turned slightly and glared at the thunderous, twisted looking man who had summoned him.

“What, pray tell,” he asked, “Have you done to Miss Absalom’s parlour?”

The twisted man’s eyebrow twitched. “I asked the ivy to leave,” he said, in a voice that was rather less perturbed than he looked.

“So you had room for this,” Tom gestured to the mountains of paper that was scattered all over the furniture, “Dreadfulness?”

The man’s eyebrow went up, now. “This _dreadfulness_ is the Raven King’s letters.”

Tom shrugged. That, in his opinion, hardly excused covering a rather attractive couch in ratty bits of paper. Then, because if he had to be pulled from his book and stand in Miss Absalom’s parlour in his housecoat and slippers he may as well snoop a bit, he stepped closer to the nearest pile of paper and started rifling through it.  

“I hope you didn’t summon me to tidy it for you. Though I can imagine a human would baulk at such a task.”

“I summoned you for advice.”

“Well, I suggest you start at the corner and work outwards.”

“Not with tidying. With translating.”

“Oh, well, if that’s all,” Tom said with entirely unconvincing pleasentness, “This, for instance,” he picked up a piece of paper full of what was, in his professional opinion, gibberish, “Obviously reads “When all the hurlyburly’s done, when the battle’s lost and won”-;”

“I do recognise Shakespeare when I hear it,” said the twisted man, whose other eyebrow had joined the first.

Tom looked at him and sniffed. “I presumed from your lack of sartorial aptitude that culture was rather beyond you.”

“As the Letters are beyond you?”

Tom would happily have killed him for that, but he wasn’t particularly in the mood for getting viscera on his new slippers. Instead, he had another rifle.

“Some of this is Sidhe,” he said, “Though if you hadn’t figured that out, I suggest you give up now and hand the task on to someone with more sense. A particularly perky hound, for instance.”

“I know some of it is Sidhe-;”

“Oh, well done!”

“But what that Sidhe _says_ -;”

“Ah, but you are the appointed translator, disappointingly tatterdemalion though you are. Translate, boy. I may be convinced to act as editor, for a fee. Ah, no, I see from your eyebrows you’re not convinced. Was that all?”

The man nodded, and, because he was a nosy bastard, Tom had another rifle before he left. Just as he was preparing his parting shot, a particularly small and filthy scrap of paper fell off the pile and landed on his slipper. With a sniff, Tom bent and picked it up, only to stop short when he saw the writing.

“What’s this?”

The man came closer and peered at it himself. “Oh,” he said, “That was just one of my mother’s tattoos. She said it was Sidhe.”

“It is,” said Tom, absently, still staring at it.

There was a long pause. “If you help me translate some of this, you can keep it.”

Tom looked up, startled. “One hour’s consultation, at my convenience.”

“Two hours, tomorrow, starting from two in the afternoon.”

“One and a half hours, this Friday, starting from three, and you provide tea.”

The man gave him a long look. “Done,” he finally said, and Tom nodded.

Tom folded the piece of paper carefully, and tucked it into his pocket. Just as he turned to disappear, he looked back. “What was your mother’s name?”

“Joan. Joan Childermass,” said the Raven King’s Reader.

Tom nodded, looking thoughtful, and disappeared.


	3. 1771

 

His seeking spell deposited him in the middle of a busy street, and he cast a quick, sketchy glamour over himself as soon as he realised he was still in his housecoat and slippers. Seconds later – not even that – someone stumbled into his back. He caught himself and spun on his heel to find a small, dark woman with far too many skirts and bare feet stepping away from him hurriedly.

 

“Sorry, sir,” she said, smiling nervously up at him, “My fault, sir. I’ll be on my way now-;”

 

Her expression was perfectly contrite but there was a sharp little light in her eyes that didn’t quite fit, and on instinct he reached out and grabbed her wrist. Twisting hard – though she did nothing but glare – he forced her to show her palm, and the few links of silver chain poking out from her sleeve that belonged to the watch she’d lifted from his pocket.

 

“ _Well_ ,” he said, and the rest of his sentence dissolved into a squawk of pain as she slammed her foot down on his instep, pulled out of his grip, and then did something extremely painful to his back that kept him doubled over until she’d already vanished into the crowd.

 

After a second, he straightened up.

 

He pushed up his left sleeve, glared at the letters on his skin, and disappeared.

 

\--

 

The next moment found him pacing up and down the corridors of one of his many palaces – his smallest, which was where he lived most of the time since it was far more difficult to mislay things, and meant fewer servants under his feet. He threw his housecoat over one of his desks and upset an inkpot, which had to be coaxed into opening again by one of his innumerable granddaughters when she came to mither – where had that word appeared from? – him a few weeks later.

 

He couldn’t say it had been his favourite watch. In fact it was his least favourite watch, and he did in truth carry it around in his housecoat in the hopes that it would fall out on one of his mid-afternoon strolls around the garden and be swallowed up by the hydrangeas. Still, it _was_ his watch, and if it left his possession it would be on his terms.

 

He paced up and down a few more times for no particular reason, and then stormed into his bedchamber to change.

 

He swept about a bit, because he could, and then glared at the wardrobe until it opened. And then he glared at the contents.

 

His suit the colour of despair was too elegant; his suit the colour of terror was too new. Everything else he discarded simply because the York dirt would show up on it.

 

But there was one more suit, crumpled up in the back of the wardrobe as something must always be, no matter how carefully one tidies things away.

 

It was a tired shade of ruthfulness, with turned sleeves and a patched lining – it was all creased up and a little loose on him, now, but that hardly mattered. He considered having it ironed, but then decided there’d be no point.

 

He slipped into it, making snide comments about the tailor all the while, and, once he’d finally got the buttons to sit straight, swept up his hair into a queue. It was hardly the neatest he’d ever looked, he thought as he looked in the mirror, but the colour suited him reasonably well, and of course he looked superb in everything he wore – it was just that he looked slightly more superb in something like acrimony or impatience. Or even blue, that suited him quite well.

 

But ruthfulness went well with the St John’s Wort he’d decided to put through his buttonhole, and so ruthfulness it was.

 

\--

 

His second, more specific seeking spell sent him to a ragged, filthy back street, in front of a narrow door the only clean part of which was the front step. A stray cat hissed at him from a safe vantage point on one of the windowsills, and he hissed right back, which rather startled it. Satisfied, he knocked on the narrow door with the clean front step.

 

A woman shouted from inside, and then there was the sound of feet on stairs, before the door opened to reveal the self-same small, dark lady in a shabby dress, and still she had no shoes, which given the state of the general atmosphere must have been unhealthy.

 

“Miss Childermass?” He had intended to give her his most charming bow, because he had never in his life drawn the line at pettiness,  but something about the scowl on her face dissuaded him.

 

“I an’t done nowt,” she said, and once more her eyes and expression disagreed, the latter not recognising him and the former testifying differently, “Don’t owe anyone money, neither, so fuck off and tell them obsequious little clerks at the courthouse to leave us be, aye?”

 

And then she slammed the door in his face.


	4. 1771(2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I probably shouldn't have named them after the years because, guess what. Most of it happens in 1771.
> 
> Also, I mourn the fact that getting Joan's accent right would have looked very strange on the page and so I've only gestured at it. Just imagine the thickest York accent you can.

 

 

Tom came back the next day, because while he didn’t appreciate being dismissed in such a cavalier fashion, he was also, it probably should have pained him to say, as competitive as the devil. And again he wore his suit of ruthlessness and again he hissed at the cat and again he knocked on the narrow door with the clean front step.

 

And again, the small, aggressive little thief opened the door.

 

This time, Tom caught the door before she could slam it.

 

“Good morning,” he said, and pushed his way inside.

 

She stared at him.

 

“I believe you have something of mine.”

 

“Ship’s sailed on that ‘n, Tam Lin,” she said, shutting the door and then leaning against the wall with her arms folded, “Sold it to a fella up Mickelgate way not,” she whistled through her teeth, “Oh, not even an hour since.”

 

Tom, it must be said, was only just managing not to splutter at this point.

 

“ _Tam Lin_?”

 

“What else am I supposed to call you when you look different through one eye as through t’other? If you in’t fay I’m the queen of fuckin’ England, and in either case you can get the fuck out of my house.”

 

“You should watch your damn tongue-"

 

“An’t ever done that in all my life, and I’m certainly not going to start just because a pretty bit of fluff gets all het up-”

 

“I could have you killed for such disrespect.”

 

“So could most the people on this street, you’re hardly special.”

 

He blinked and stepped closer to her, forcing her to crane her neck to look him in the eye. “I’m not leaving until I get my watch.”

 

“Then you’ll be here a long time,” she said, speaking as softly as he.

 

He tilted his head at her, folding his arms across his chest. “So be it.”

 

She pursed her lips and then stepped back. “Fine. But if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do. Feel free to wait there ‘til Doomsday, but don’t expect me to pay you any mind.”

 

She swept across the hall, more dignified than anyone of her dress and stature had any right to be, opened the door that Tom presumed led to a room as dark and – Tom couldn’t finish this thought as he wished, since when he allowed himself to look about the narrow corridor, he realised that while it was dark, and slightly dank, it was not dingy at all. Anyway, the pertinent point is that he followed her directly, carried forward by his indignation at not having had the last word.

 

The room he entered was tiny – around the size of his wardrobe – lit lowly by the sun through thin, gauzy curtains. It was uncarpeted, the walls just plastered. The fireplace was cold, an iron pot on a grille above what was left of the embers. There were two old chairs by the window, one of which was piled high with mending – Joan, already with a needle in her fingers and a torn skirt in her lap, sat in the other. A mattress was tucked in the opposite corner, the bed neatly made even though the blankets on it were old and patched.

 

She didn’t even look up as he entered and strolled about the room, his heels clicking obnoxiously against the floorboards.

 

“Born in a barn, were you?” she asked, after a moment, still not looking up.

 

“Excuse me?”

 

She gestured to the door with a flick of her sewing hand as she pulled her thread through. “You’ve left the door open.”

 

 Tom scowled at her, and, since she still wasn’t looking at him, stomped over and slammed it.

 

“ _Better?_ ”

 

“Much. Ta.”

 

He scowled some more, for his own peace of mind, and then decided that the best of limited options was to lean against the wall.

 

She persisted in finding her mending more fascinating than him, but if she thought she had the upper hand in terms of stubborn pride, she would be wrong.

 

After five long minutes of silent animosity, there was the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and then the door was tried and opened.

 

A lady, tall and thin and pinched, stepped in, and became even more pinched at the sight of Joan. 

 

“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked, glaring.

 

“Mrs Jacobs needs this all done by Wednesday.”

 

“We ain’t about to make a living taking in the mending of them’s as too shapless to do it theirselves. I’ve told you before about that-;”

 

“Aye, that you have.”

 

The woman glanced away from Joan, then, and caught sight of Tom. She stared at him for a long moment, looking more than a little bewildered, and then back to Joan.

 

“And you do this while a client stands idle-;”

 

“He’s no client,” Joan snapped, “And I’ll spend my time as I see fit. It mayn’t make us much now but I’m getting more in every week and it’s always good to have summat legal on’t side-;”

 

“All men are clients, and you are just as intractable as you were when you were sixteen. I’m reaching the end of my tether with you, girl.”

 

“Now that I an’t heard before.”

 

The woman’s lips pursed, hard enough that she could have done herself an injury. Then she spun on her heel and glared at Tom.

 

“And you can get yourself gone, n’all. I take it you’re like that Geordie fella last night, chasing every girl that matches them letters God damned you with? I’ll tell you this for nothing, that stubborn cow in’t the Joan you’re looking for.”

 

With that, she stalked off, out of the room and back up the stairs.

 

“Well,” said Tom, surprised despite himself, “That’s me told.”

 

Joan burst out laughing.

 

And, quite against his will, Tom smiled.

 

-

 

He’d left a little later, once boredom got the better of him, but vowed to return the next day – _“Is this how fairies pitch woo_?” she’d asked him, a smirk playing at her mouth. _“You’ll have to see, won’t you?”_ he’d returned, appropriately blasé, but he hadn’t yet quite been able to banish the image of her amused smile. It was most frustrating.

 

He forwent hissing at the cat, this time, because there was a watery little whelp of a man leaning on a bit of wall some yards away. He glared at the man, instead, but said man didn’t seem to notice – he kept looking at his wrist and sighing for some unfathomable reason.

 

The door opened as soon as Tom knocked, and Joan didn’t even greet him with sarcasm before peering each way along the street. Blood drained from her cheeks when she caught sight of Pasty and Lovelorn over by the wall, and then she grabbed Tom by his lapels, tugged him down, and kissed him.

 

Tom didn’t even have time to recover from the surprise and give as good as he got before she dragged him inside – she was very strong for someone so small – and knocked the door shut behind him.

 

As soon as the door shut, she shoved him away from her and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

 

“There’s this man been hanging around,” she said, sounding ever so slightly less collected than she usually did, “If he thinks I have a client, he’ll leave me alone.”

 

Then, since Tom - much to his own consternation – didn’t retort, she frowned at him.

 

“What are you gawping at, Tam Lin?”

 

Then she blinked, and a long, sideways, and intolerably smug smile made its way onto her face.

 

“Tom,” he said, eventually.

 

“Eh?”

 

“If we’re on kissing terms, it’s Tom.”

 

“I think I’ll stick to Tam Lin, ta very much.”

 

Still smiling far too smugly to tolerate, Joan went into her small room and Tom followed.

 

“He thinks I’m his soulmate,” Joan said.

 

“Are you?”

 

“No.”

 

“I see.” Tom once again took up his station against the wall, but since there was no mending for Joan to occupy either herself or a chair with, ignoring each other wasn’t quite as successful as it had been the day previous. Instead she kept glancing at him as she wandered around the room, her arms folded tight across her chest. She came to a stop opposite him, worrying at a nail in the floor with her toe.

 

“What’d you come back for?” she said, eventually, without looking at him.

 

“I’ve either come for the watch or pitching woo. Your choice.”

 

“Told you, I’ve sold the damn thing.”

 

“I can tell when I’m being lied to.”

 

“Still don’t see why you have to come mithering me about it. Weren’t even a good watch, in’t keeping proper time and it hasn’t been polished in a long while.”

 

“But it is mine.”

 

She looked at him, then, and made a dismissive noise just as there came the sound of footsteps from upstairs.

 

Joan cursed in quite an unladylike fashion. “Right. You, out, I’m not going through that again-”

 

“ _Excuse me?”_

 

She rolled her eyes. “Out, come on. Or do you want yelling at again? Thought not,” she said to his rather horrified expression, and, quite against his will, she bustled him out of the room and down the hall until he was standing just inside the threshold. Where he stopped, and refused to be bustled any further.

 

“For fuck’s sake, Tam Lin, shift-”

 

“ _Tom_ ,” he said, and before he’d even realised he was going to do it, he took her face in his hands, leant down and kissed her.

 

She froze, just as he had earlier, and her hands came up to his chest as if to push him away but she didn’t - just left them there, pressing lightly and warm even through his coat.

 

When she did pull back, it was slow – and reluctant, he thought, with no little smugness of his own – and her eyes kept flicking up to meet his and then back down to his lips.

 

“What the hell was that for,” she asked, barely above a whisper.

 

“I thought we had a fiction to keep up.”

 

Joan blinked, and then craned her neck to look around him.

 

“He’s not here.”

 

“Oh, well, can never be too careful,” he said, smiling crookedly as he stepped backwards into the street.

 

“You-” she began, but he never heard what name she was about to call him, because he vanished.


End file.
